An Understanding
by sharinat
Summary: Angsty-ness set after 11x02, but before 11x04 when Tony's apparent Path to Self Betterment begins. Deals with what I personally think has been going on underneath the surface of Tony's A-Okay exterior, because dude seems shockingly well-adjusted to this whole "life without Ziva thing," power of positive thinking, regardless.


**An Understanding**

When his foot hits the seventh stair from the bottom, it creaks like it always does. The murmur of voices from further below falls silent.

Another step down and he can see Gibbs leaning against his workbench; for the first time, Tony finds himself thinking that the other man looks old.

One leg reaches, the other knee bends. McGee appears, his slumped frame half cloaked in shadow at the far edge of the room.

_Five stairs to go._

Although he has obviously interrupted their conversation, neither Gibbs nor McGee attempts to pick it back up again. They just watch, mute, as Tony finishes his descent.

"Hey," he says. It's only one syllable, but it still catches in the middle - comes out sounding rusted and broken, reveals far too much. He immediately wishes he could reach into the air and snatch it back, shove the simple greeting that wasn't simple at all into his aching chest once more, where it should have stayed in the first place.

He tries to smile. Offer up a patented DiNozzo grin, the perfectly crafted mask he's been using for weeks to say, _See? I'm fine_. But tonight it feels wrong. Like the effort strains, and its end product is wholly unnatural. They say it's easier to smile than to frown, say it takes nearly twice as many muscles to wear a sad face than it does a happy one. Tony's not so sure, anymore. A damp heat builds behind his eyes the longer he forces it, until eventually, defeated, he releases his lips from their stiffly-held upward curve.

McGee scrubs a hand over his face. When he pulls it away, his gaze is a little more red-rimmed and bleary than it had been before.

_Well, at least I'm not the only wreck_. Except, if not the _only_ wreck, he's definitely the biggest and he knows – he _knows_ – at least part of what McGee is exhibiting right now is sympathy. Pity.

For him.

"Gonna stand there all night?" Gibbs' question is gruff, but the tone gentle. It's suddenly hard to swallow.

McGee reaches to drag an unused sawhorse out from the wall. The noise it makes as it scrapes across the floor could deafen.

Understanding the invitation for what it is, Tony inches across the basement's threshold until he's standing next to the proffered seat. He can't bring himself to actually take it. The muscles and sinews of his body are stretched too taut to fold, and he fears something essential within him might snap if he does. He's not confident it could be fixed.

McGee and Gibbs exchange a glance, then McGee ventures, "I can go, if you…" He hesitates.

"It's fine," Tony says quickly. Guilt sweeps over him. "I'm the one crashing the party. And I don't even –" He cuts off. _I don't even know why I'm here_. He's not a child. He didn't fall off his bike, and there's no scrape for Gibbs to bandage up and kiss better.

_I don't even know why I'm here. _

"No, no," McGee insists, once the unspoken thought has finished settling over the room. He rises, nearly tripping over a cinder block in his haste to be accommodating. Careful and polite to a fault, as he always is around Tony these days. "I was about to leave anyway."

Abruptly annoyed, Tony starts, "McGee –"

A sigh from Gibbs brings them both up short. "Would you bozos shut up? McGee, sit down. DiNozzo, start talking."

McGee shuts his mouth with an audible click and collapses back into his chair. Tony wants to want to laugh, but finds he can't even manage that.

Instead, he idly traces the surface of the aged sawhorse and says, "It's nothing, Boss." He still can't swallow.

Gibbs raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Alright." His disbelief is clear, yet he shrugs as if he couldn't care less before turning to fiddle with something on his workbench.

Tony focuses on mapping the sawhorse's scars, hoping to avoid being taken in by the blatant reverse psychology at work.

To no one's surprise, he doesn't last long. One hand sneaks into his coat pocket, unbidden, pulling out a crinkled scrap of paper that is heavy with a disproportionate weight.

"What's that?" McGee asks.

Tony closes his fist around it. "Nothing. Stopped in at my neighbourhood deli on the way home, got to talking to the new cashier. She gave me her number."

McGee inclines his head a little.

The sound of a mason jar being upturned rings loudly in Tony's ears.

And just like that, the dam breaks. Words claw their way out past the painful knots in his vocal chords that are trying to keep them in.

He says, "I almost threw it out when I left the store, but I thought she might see me so I kept it until I got to my apartment. And _that _just made the whole thing worse, somehow." He stares down at his fist. The knuckles are turning white, so he loosens his grasp. "You know, Boss. We all used to joke about it: your string of ex-wives, your revolving door of girlfriends…the Navy yard gossip mill loves you."

McGee chokes slightly in what Tony imagines must be horror, but he doesn't really process it because, "It's not funny, though. It's not a joke." He doesn't want to – God, does he not want to - but he thinks he finally gets it. Can understand. It's been a whole month, almost to the day, but Ziva's left a jagged, gaping hole in Tony's life and its edges are as raw and bleeding as ever_. _And he gets it_._ "It's not a joke because Shannon was _it_ for you. And no one else can even come close."

Gibbs slowly pivots on his heels, slack fingers holding a mason jar full of bourbon. Tony meets his eyes and sees his own bone-deep tiredness reflected back at him.

"No way they could," Gibbs says.

Tony's jaw works uselessly for several beats.

Gibbs comes forward, stopping an arm's length away. He clasps Tony's shoulder. Squeezes once.

"I think she was my Shannon, Boss." The sentence, when it shakes loose, is barely more than a whisper.

Blue irises sharpening, Gibbs asks, "Was?"

Tony breathes a stunted, hollow chuckle. "Was, is…" He shrugs, helpless, but doesn't dislodge the steadying grip on his arm. "Always will be. And I don't know how to…" _Live without her_, his mind supplies. He lets the thought – the memory – escape only as an exhale without form or voice. Aloud, he continues, "…just, what am I supposed to do, now, Boss?"

Gibbs considers him for a measured, lingering moment, then nods. His expression is a strange mix of satisfaction and regret, as if some terrible test has been passed.

"You have a drink," he says, pressing the glass of amber liquid into Tony's free palm. The other is still clenched around a phone number that will never be dialed. "And then you tell me what you're gonna help build while you figure it out."


End file.
